


And the Fog Became God

by icarusfalls



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Enjolras, E/R - Freeform, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Short Grantaire, Smoking, Teasing, a severe lack of adjectives to describe enjolras, cigarette burns, smoker enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusfalls/pseuds/icarusfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras had never been one to submit. He had never caved to what anyone else wanted, had never even thought of it. Temptation had never been something that affected him, so far as he was concerned, and if anyone thought otherwise, they didn’t say so. The cigarettes had been the one thing to take control of him, and he hated it, but he couldn’t put them down. Throwing them away seemed impossible. </p><p>“I didn’t hear you come in.”</p><p>“That’s because I never left.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Fog Became God

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, guys! This is my first e/R fic based on two prompts I got on tumblr:
> 
> "i have a real thing for e/R smoking!kink - can you write something about that (bonus points if R breathes smoke in Enjolras' mouth"  
> "Can we get anything short!R?" 
> 
> So basically that's that. Warnings for intentional cigarette burns, some talk of scars (shouldn't be anything too triggering), and a shit ton of fluff and prose to mix in with the smut. You'll find nothing overly explicit here.
> 
> Unbeta'd so there may be some mistakes.

Fingers tremble at Enjolras’ sides, inching forward to rest against the old wood of the windowsill. The view is nothing special – it’s like any other in the old apartments of New York’s meat packing district. Sometimes when it’s clear out he can see the Hudson, just barely, between the rooftops and cracks in the warehouses and studio apartments that block his way. Normally all he sees is the grey of the buildings opposite him, the old, orange-and-brown-rusted fire escapes that had never been used for more than a place to take a smoke break. He’s guilty of the same, climbing out his window onto that rickety metal platform to lean against the barely-there railing in an effort to wash away the stress. His fingers toy with the latch on the window – he can feel the weight of the cigarette pack in his pocket. It’s tempting him, telling him that just one cigarette won’t hurt anyone, but then there’s the rational part of his brain that tells him it’s also only twelve degrees outside and he’s more likely to slip on black ice and tumble off the fire-escape and fall six stories to his death than he is to actually get to enjoy the nicotine.

It’s an old and bad habit – he picked it up when he was sixteen, when his cause first found him. There was something about his desperation for leadership that had led him to it; maybe it was the stress of putting himself in such a position as such a young age, or maybe Enjolras just needed something to make him look older and more respectable when he led a protest.  Maybe it was both. Either way, here he was five years later with a pack of menthols dragging him down and the burning urge in the back of his throat owning his mind in a way he loathed.

Enjolras had never been one to submit. He had never caved to what anyone else wanted, had never even thought of it. Temptation had never been something that affected him, so far as he was concerned, and if anyone thought otherwise, they didn’t say so. The cigarettes had been the one thing to take control of him, and he hated it, but he couldn’t put them down. Throwing them away seemed impossible.

He stood in front of his window like this too often, and the urge to light one up always won.

Drawn from his mind by the slide of arms around his middle and the press of a face between his shoulder blades, Enjolras took in a gasp of breath and held it, trying to fight back the way his lips quirked into a smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Grantaire was as much a source of amusement and pleasure as he was the cause of many of Enjolras’ most frequent annoyances. Their relationship was odd; indescribable. Grantaire pulled where the leader in red pushed, and Grantaire sat indignantly wherever and whenever his Apollo thought he should stand up. He believed in nothing but wine, poetry, and ecstasy. He was as much Enjolras’ enabled as Enjolras was his voice of reason and that made them incredibly functional but also incredibly dangerous.

Grantaire gave a muffled hum, his fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie that clung too-tightly around Enjolras’ stomach.  The blonde turned his head just enough to see the top of Grantaire’s dark curls.

“That’s because I never left.”

“I didn’t notice that, either.”

Enjolras’ words might have sounded almost harsh despite their gentle tone if they had been spoken to anyone outside of his immediate circle of friends. He was sometimes ignorant to his surroundings and anything but his own too-frequent thoughts. Grantaire had a habit of sneaking out in the middle of the night after their escapades, so waking up without him in the apartment was never really unsettling. He had a key and he came and went as he pleased, no questions asked. It just wasn’t something that the blonde thought about anymore.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” There’s a bit of laughter in Grantaire’s tone as his fingers trace out the zipper going down the center of Enjolras’ garment. The cynic finds the hem and traces it around the blond’s waist before feeling over the lump in his lover’s right back pocket. “Smoking?”

“Not at the moment,” The taller male smiled, turning around as Grantaire’s stubby fingers dipped into the pocket the grab for the pack. “I was trying to overcome the urge.” He was facing Grantaire now, towering over him by what had to be at least six or seven inches. The drunk was short – Enjolras liked to tease and say that his height was a direct consequence of how small and inconsequential his lover saw himself. Grantaire always looked down or away like a scolded child when he made comments like that, so the revolutionary one usually bit his tongue.

“Why on Earth would you do that, Apollo?” Grantaire chided playfully, his lips curling into a mischievous grin as his hand sought out the pack again, sliding along Enjolras’ thigh as it made a path to that which it could no longer see or feel pressed against him. “Giving in is half the fun.” The look of mischief that crosses Grantaire’s features is one that can spell absolutely nothing but trouble and E knows it. He stiffens considerably as the hand slides tauntingly and teasingly down into the pocket of his jeans and fumbles draws the cardboard pack from its crammed place against the strong-willed one’s backside. Enjolras can do nothing but heave a sigh as Grantaire pulls out a cigarette and waves it under his nose like he is a dog being teased with a bite of stead off its master’s dish.

Enjolras would never admit to it, but he licks his lips.

Grantaire must have noted the action because he’s laughing, the sound muffled and hoarse, as early morning laughs are wont to be. Blue-grey eyes flicker down at the face staring up at him as the cigarette finds its way between pink, vaguely chapped lips that curl up into a smirk at the attention being paid to their every movement. A lighter is procured from within the pack, where Enjolras shoved it in an attempt to keep track of it, and before the blond can say another word in protest a spiral of white smoke has ghosted over their heads and Grantaire is taking a long, audible draw, biting down loosely on the filter, just enough to make a visible crease when he draws it from his lips.

“We aren’t supposed to smoke in he—“ Enjolras’ futile argument is cut short as a plume of smoke clouds his vision and his senses, blown directly from Grantaire’s mouth up at him. He bats a hand in front of his face and swats at the cloud to clear it. By the time he can see clearly again, Grantaire is already taking another puff, looking even more smug than usual.

The brunet in front of him is about to say something cocky, Enjolras is sure, so his broad hands find their way to stubble-coated cheeks and grip harshly as soon as the burning cigarette is pulled away. His mouth crashes down against the adjacent one, biting down teasingly on the sealed pout in an effort to coax the cracked lips to part. Grantaire gives a pleased sound and does as is being demanded of him.

It takes a moment for the vaguely minty flavor of the smoke to coat Enjolras’ tongue and trickle down his throat, the shorter, more reckless man exhaling only as the blond claims his lover’s mouth with a ferocity not often seen by others within their circle. Grantaire melts against Enjolras’ chest, one hand looped around the slight frame of the other man’s body while the other holds the cigarette away to avoid burning either of them as teeth clash and intensity spikes.

Mornings end like this more often than not. The scenarios are different but the end result is the same. Grantaire’s thick fingers are tugging at the zipper of Enjolras’ hoodie and it falls to the floor, revealing a bare chest underneath. The chill of the winter stings at the blond’s skin but he ignores it in favor of pulling away to exhale the stolen smoke from between pursed lips. His tongue drags over the plush of his mouth, tasting the remnants of Grantaire’s flavor, an obnoxious mix of sin – greed, gluttony, and maybe a touch of sloth, if they had a taste – and the burn and twang of whiskey that seems ever present. It stings Enjolras’ mouth pleasantly, making him dive in for more as Grantaire’s fingers close loosely around his neck, steering him towards the wall.

Though Grantaire lacked height he made up for it in strength. His body was firm against Enjolras, pressing in all the right places and playing the taller man like a well-tuned instrument. The blond’s lips parted and he sighed in pleasured ecstasy as lips found their way to the dip of his neck, still bruised and sore from the night before. The darker-haired scoundrel mouths over a tender mark that curves around the side of his God’s neck, slotting his teeth in the same place they had fallen the night before and refreshing the marks and indentations they had left on the skin.

Enjolras is powerless beneath him. He melts beneath hot touches, the scalding graze of calloused fingertips tracing down his chest, fingertips dipping into his navel only to withdraw and trace around it, leaving him squirming as his stomach flourishes from the tickling sensation. He pays a brief thought to the pile of ashes that must be decorating the ground by now, but then he can feel cool smoke against that sore bruise on his neck, and he can smell the menthol, and his concern has left him.

“Kiss me again. Like I kissed you before.” Enjolras sounds almost feeble, his words lacking their usually domineering edge. He wants Grantaire, and he _needs_ Grantaire, and lord help him if this isn’t better than any nicotine buzz out there.

The artist leaves him wanting for nothing. Within seconds the other male has leaned up, pressing his weight against Enjolras for balance. Their mouths collide and lips part. The smoke rushes forth at first and then trickles; the blond can feel it dance across his lips, all that he can swallow down escaping from the corners of his mouth to dissipate into the air.

“Need you.” Grantaire’s voice tears him from his disconnected euphoria, and he’s suddenly aware of the way his lover is white-knuckling his hip. It hurts, but just a little.

“Put the cigarette out.”

What comes next is yet another thing Enjolras has come to expect. This isn’t the first time they’ve danced with the smoke flowing between their lips and there’s a single line of circular scars detailing his right hipbone to prove it. Grantaire nods, sliding down the length of Enjolras’ body, pressing kisses all the way, until he’s kneeling and his nose is pressed against the jut of the bone. He kisses the scars, some older, some newer, and brings the cigarette down beside them.

The leader’s head crashes back against the wall, knocking against the sturdy surface with a _thump_ that probably would have hurt has his flesh not been searing beneath sizzling embers. His breath catches in his throat and fingers reach out to grab at dark, thick, sex-mussed curls. Grantaire groans after his own breath catches in shock and mild pain as he draws the cigarette away and peppers kisses above, below, and to the left and right of the new wound.

It’s scar number six. Enjolras will wear it as a badge of honor. He likes these scars. They’re always a reminder every time he finds himself in the mirror, that there is something out there other than the cause. There’s an irony to the juxtaposition of the ugly, burnt flesh and the fragile prettiness that people always seem to remember him for. It’s what brings him back to Earth when he finds himself lost in the atmosphere or when his ego gets the better of him. It’s not only a reminder of Grantaire, but of humanity, and of his friendships.

It keeps him from losing touch.

It takes a moment for Enjolras to loosen his grip on Grantaire’s hair, but when he does they’ve both come down from that rushed and frantic need for each other. The need is still there, but when they look at each other there’s more connection and less primal urge.

Grantaire stands, barely steady on his feet, as he tosses the filter from between his fingers to the ground. One hand comes up to cup his Apollo’s cheek, the other falls on the other hip. He draws the blond down for another kiss – this one is languid. Their tongues move in tandem, rolling over one another in a slow and steady rhythm as Enjolras pushes Grantaire back lightly. He does nothing to break the kiss but has to open his eyes a touch as he steers them through the shoebox apartment, stumbling around boxes that have been there for a year and have yet to be unpacked, to the bedroom.

Grantaire is the first to hit the bed, and his grip on the marble-esque man draws Enjolras down with him.  They move like a well-oiled machine or a well-practiced dancer. Grantaire is shirtless already; when is he not? He runs hot and no matter how chilled the outside air is he can never seem to keep his clothes on more than a few minutes when he stumbles into the apartment that they truly might as well share at this point. Enjolras rakes his fingertips through chest hair and down through the trail beneath his lover’s navel that disappears under boxers that he’s rather positive belonged to Courfeyrac at one point or another, if the hearts are any indication. He pays no mind and dips a finger beneath the elastic waistband, tracing it side to side along hidden skin.

“I love you,” Breathes Grantaire, leaning away from kiss swollen lips to catch a breath.

Enjolras just smiles, because that’s all Grantaire needs. Grantaire knows how Enjolras feels.  

Still, Enjolras figures, it wouldn’t hurt to response just once.

“I love you, too,” He answers in a breath that is barely louder than a whisper, the words swallowed by skin as his head dips to decorate the cynic’s broad shoulder with marks of his own. He swears he can hear Grantaire muffle a delighted squeak, but he can’t be sure so he doesn’t even lift his head, dutifully working against unmarred flesh that tastes a little bit like sweat and the lingering, alcoholic bitterness of whatever cologne the other man had worn the day before.

Grantaire spreads himself out more evenly across the bed as kisses trace down his chest, a tongue laving at a perked nipple and sending his mind into a spiral. Enjolras amuses himself for a long while, spelling out his name and then the names of all the Gods that Grantaire rattles off to him in moments of surprising passion and poetry. Greek, roman, it’s all the same. He moves to the other and repeats until he can feel his love hard beneath him, lost to rambled words and desires he doesn’t need to speak for Enjolras to understand.

The world is waking up outside. The near constant hum of cars and lights and people is growing steadily louder, but as far as Enjolras is concerned their world ends with their four walls. The rattle of the nearby train doesn’t faze him as his ghosts kisses down over the undefined stomach of his wayward lover, fingers teasing at thick thighs and pushing up under the thin cotton of boxers that, had Enjolras been a gracious lover, should have long since been shed.

There’s something to be said about the way that Enjolras gets off the Grantaire wrecked beneath him – mostly untouched and desperate just because of a few kisses and the well placed graze of soft-padded fingers. His jeans, pulled on in the haste of his morning need for a smoke, have gotten too tight now and he thinks that he could almost find it in himself to give the needy artist beneath him all that he’s looking for.

_Almost._

Enjolras climbs off the bed, earning him a displeased hum from the man stretched out so pliantly against too-old burgundy bed sheets that have already curled up off one corner of the mattress. The grey comforter hangs off one side of the bed, and it all seems to fit with the way that Grantaire looks like an absolute mess, propped up on his elbows and demanding to know where Enjolras thinks he’s going. The boy’s eyes are a wild mess of pupil and the thin green hiding behind wanting black, and it makes the blond grin.

“Nowhere. Patience is a virtue,” Enjolras chastises lightly, his tone dancing with amused laughter as he peels off the remainder of his clothing at a glacial pace.

“Not one I possess. Now come back here.” That’s a demand if there ever was one, and Enjolras finds himself powerless to it.

Finally he gives in to the temptation that had been stirring within him almost as long as it had Grantaire. He collapses back onto the mattress and Grantaire rolls over on top of him, practiced, nimble hands tossing stolen boxers away to the now forgotten corner of the room. It will be a job to find them later, Enjolras is sure, but with the way that Grantaire’s shaft slots against his own he can’t be bothered to think about that much longer than a minute or two. His fingers, long and boney, find their usual place in Grantaire’s curls as they rut together for several long minutes. The friction stings a bit and Grantaire spits in his palm, graciously sliding it over both of their lengths for a bit of lubrication. The extra pressure drives Enjolras absolutely mad, panting out little sighs and sounds that Grantaire has always told him were so addicting that they ought to be illegal.

There’s a moment of mild disappointment as Grantaire crawls away to fumble with the cardboard box of condoms and the lube hidden in the drawer of the nightstand that they’d both forgotten to close the night before.

Grantaire is an expert at making Enjolras come undone. His methods differ from the blond’s considerably, which is yet another of their conflicting traits that make them work so well together. Where Enjolras destroys Grantaire with next to nothing, the brunet is vicious even when he is sweet. His fingers move inside of his leader reverently, one, then two, and then a third, twisting, curling, moving as much as the tight heat around them might allow. They both know it isn’t necessary – they’ve been at this so long and so frequently that there’s really very little need for prep – but Enjolras loves it, so Grantaire keeps it up; it isn’t as if the sound of the slight of frame chief crying out his name with every twist of his wrist isn’t enough incentive to begin with.

“Want you,” Enjolras breathes and like clockwork Grantaire’s fingers are replaced with every inch of the other man’s length with only two beats missed. The blond arches and scrapes his fingers down the man’s back, the pressure increasing which every inch they slide. Grantaire grunts against the taller man’s throat and hikes a leg up around his waist with one sharp tug that buries him even deeper inside.

There’s no muffling the sounds that fall from either of their lips, and that doesn’t bother them. The sounds tumble out in tandem like a symphony as their voices rise and fall between the octaves with each wave of pleasure. They don’t speak when they’re tangled together like this – no more than the hushed, prayer-soft cry of the other’s name at least. Words would ruin the moment – words would shatter the universe they’ve built up inside of their bedroom. Neither of them want that.

They build each other up until they can’t go any higher, and when they reach their peak they don’t fall down gently; they crash. The world stops spinning for a moment as they cling and cry and sob out in ecstasy and in longing for more even though they know that, for the moment, it’s over.

 By the time that they curl up in each other’s arms, though, any regret about letting it end that they had vanishes. The earth is moving again, and reality is seeping back in.

Sometimes Enjolras closes his eyes to push it off just a little bit longer, because for just those few moments reality has no place in his world. Fighting the good fight doesn’t matter. All he wants to focus on is the heavy breathing from the man with his face pressed against the sheets against all better judgment that says that might not be such a good idea. He smiled and drags his finger down the center of Grantaire’s slick, sweaty back.

Enjolras closes his eyes, only for a minute. He can feel Grantaire shift beside him, draping himself over the chest of the man who so often gave himself over so willingly.

“With his venom, irresistible-- ” Grantaire started, making the blonde crack an eye an raise a brow in curiosity. “-- And bittersweet, that loosener of limbs. Love, reptile-like, strikes me down.” It’s a Greek poem, one of Sappho’s, and Enjolras recognizes it suddenly. Grantaire had recited it before, but suddenly it holds a new weight and the still-tingling blond finds himself silencing the other man with an easy kiss and a content sigh.

The urge for that cigarette is gone, but a whole new addiction remains. It’s an addiction by the name of Grantaire, and for once, Enjolras is glad to let it rule him.

 


End file.
